


Scattered Crystal Shards

by lilithqueen



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Au Ra Xaela (Final Fantasy XIV), Duskwight Elezen (Final Fantasy XIV), Elezen (Final Fantasy XIV), Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), F/M, Fluff, Garleans (Final Fantasy XIV), Hyur (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Miqo'te (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 11,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Responses to various ask prompts I receive on my FFXIV OC tumblr, cross-posted here! Featuring but not limited to grumpy Garleans, mischievous Miqo'te, elegant Elezen, and awesome Au Ra. (Not featuring quite so much alliteration, though.)
Relationships: Emmanellain de Fortemps/Warrior of Light, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 3





	1. "Wait, I can explain!" (Q'sevet Tia)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [ffxiv-swarm!](http://ffxiv_swarm.tumblr.com/)

It had seemed like an excellent idea at the time. 

Then again, that was how all of Sevet’s worst nights had ever started. He groaned, burying his face in the mercifully-clean straw on the floor of his–wait. He didn’t smell chocobo. The memories of last night dropped into his mind like a ton of bricks, and he groaned again. 

“Oi, you’re awake!”

Well, at least he had company in the form of the big roegadyn he’d met last night. Iyrnfolc? Iyrnmhar? Something Iyrn. He dimly recalled a heavy arm wrapping around his shoulders, a great deal of off-key singing. A lot of drinks. “Sod off.”

“Can’t believe you swiped a Yellowjacket’s axe.” 

Iyrnzahr, that was it. Sevet wished he had something to throw, and settled for a snarl and a warning lash of his tail. “Can’t believe y’ _bet me I couldn’t.”_

There was a faint rustle–Iyrnzahr shaking his head. “An’ ye made it three streets away before ‘e caught up, an’ _then_ only because ye was laughin’ like a jackal. Where’d y’ learn to run like that?”

“How are you not dead–oh. I have a brother.” _Who’s gonna be bloody furious. C’mon, Sev, think–there’s gotta be a way out of this._ Nothing came.

“Sevet!? Sevet!” Oh, no. Kerahn, and he sounded frantic. Even though his head felt like the bottom of an anvil, Sevet made himself sit up and face him. Maybe if he looked suitably pathetic, the guards would have mercy.

“I can explain.”


	2. "This isn't what it looks like!" (Tiber Gallius)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tiber's ex was a dick

“Get. Out.”

To give him the minor credit of possessing a basic sense of self-preservation, Marcellus kir Audax did look terrified. Since he was also naked in their bed next to an equally naked Hyuran man Tiber didn’t recognize, Tiber was not inclined towards charity. They both looked as though they’d rather be anywhere but where they were. “Look. Tiber. Babe. We can both agree this wasn’t going–”

“We can both _nothing_.” The grief and shock hadn’t hit yet, but he could feel it like a cresting wave beyond the scorching rage that sent tremors through his clenched fists. They’d only been seeing each other for a few months, but those had–he’d thought, and false gods had he been wrong!–that they were happy ones. Sure, Marcellus could be distant, rarely speaking about his work or asking personal questions, and his smile had rarely reached his eyes–but they were both soldiers of the Empire, and Tiber had assumed his job weighed heavily on him as well. “Get your bloody trousers on and–and get _out_ , I never want to see you again–”

“…You bloody _bastard_.” Oh. Hm. The man had a voice. And he was looking at Marcellus in something like disgust. “You said he wouldn’t mind.”

Marcellus started to say something, but it was interrupted by Tiber picking up his discarded uniform trousers and throwing them at his head. “Both of you. Dressed. Out of this _fucking_ room. Mar–” Oh, bloody hell. He could feel the tears starting up. 

When Marcellus informed him that he was always too _clingy_ and slammed the door shut behind himself and his new conquest, Tiber finally buried his head in his arms and let himself cry.


	3. "For those we have lost. For those we can yet save." (Tiber Gallius)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 1 of 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (CW: torture, burns)

The leader of the Frumentarii that have captured him (false gods, a moment’s hesitation and they’d been on him, dragging him away from the supply convoy he’d been supposed to be guarding–he can only hope against hope that Vesper yet lives, for he could never face Miss Bayaqud if he did not–) identifies herself as Temira eir Harenata. She is a middle-aged miqo’te, a Seeker with skin the color of the desert sand and eyes like embers, and he has a moment of lucidity after coming round to think that she looks familiar. He has a moment after that to recognize that he has been stripped to his smalls and bound to a metal chair in a rickety shack–by the grit on the floor, he’s sure they’re still in Gyr Abania. He can’t have been taken far, then. Thank the Emperor. (A figure of speech. There is nothing to thank the Emperor for.)

And then she is lifting his chin delicately on sharp-tipped gauntlets, and she speaks. “Tiber pyr Gallius. Son of Cicer pyr Gallius, brother of Portia oen Gallius.”

They know his name. They know his family’s names. They were _looking_ for him. Hope sinks in his chest like a stone as her steel claws dig into his jaw, drawing tiny drops of blood. 

Too late, he realizes that her other hand holds an engraved bone wand–the sort of thing issued to signifers who need to travel light. With terrifying gentleness, she rests it between his collarbones. “I will have the locations of Vivian oen Capsari and Q’yala Terret.”

Fear slithers down his spine, cold and shameful, before it abruptly drains away. “No.”

She shrugs, ears flicking. He sees the flame before he registers the heat, a shock of pain that brings tears to his eyes and rips a cry from his throat. Agonizingly slowly, she drags it across his chest in an almost delicate swirl; as he instinctively throws himself backwards in his chair (yes, it’s been bolted to the floor, good to know), the pain follows and grows to an agony. Dimly, he hears something– _his own skin_ –sizzle. 

And then she lifts the wand, studying the pencil-thin path of seared flesh. “I will have them.”

 _I will die first._ He is lost. He knows it as surely as he knows his own name. If he is not somehow rescued ( _miraculously_ , he thinks, and begins to understand how the Eorzeans can put their faith in eikons instead of their own hands), eir Harenata will kill him–that is, if he doesn’t bite through his own tongue and deny her the satisfaction. But he is one man, and if by his silence he can save two…

(Vivian will never know his feelings. He’ll never get to kiss them, never hold them in his arms. A small regret, measured against the certainty that at least they will be alive to avenge him. Still– _still_ , his treacherous heart cries in pain. _I should have told him_.)

He grits his teeth, and says nothing.

The burning begins again.


	4. Betrayer, Betrayed (Q'sevet Tia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 2 of 3

The shack is exactly where the Imperial told them it was, half-hidden by scrub and a tarp thrown over the roof to hide its outline. Sevet can’t smell blood, but the air stings his nose anyway. It doesn’t look large enough to fit a crowd, and they haven’t left magitek out in the open. It might be safe. It might be a trap.

He clears his throat. “Boss. Plan?”

Evrard shifts in the saddle, casting a glance down at the Garlean he’d introduced as a friend. “Alan?”

Evrard’s Garlean tightens his grip on his gunblade. “We kill them. All of them.”

Sevet’s never killed anyone. Severely wounded and possibly maimed, aye, but killed? Nay. He is a hunter, not a warrior. But…

But he thinks of Aunt Hilde, Cousin Irmele, the Greyashes. He remembers their stories, remembers the pain and rage in their eyes when they spoke of their fallen homeland–the homeland none of them thought they’d live to see restored. He slides out of Seris’s saddle and nocks his bow. _Just another target, Sev. Just another target. Even if it is for a Garlean._

They tie their chocobos up behind one of the stunted trees that dot the area and continue on foot, keeping a low profile; this, at least, is something Sevet knows he’s damn good at. He has to grudgingly admit that the Garlean in his long duster is better at it than his boss, who would stand out like a sore thumb if any of the Imperials were keeping a keen eye out. But they meet no sentries, and that raises the hairs on his ears. For a moment he wishes he was hunting with Kerahn and his sisters; it would be so _easy_ to raise concerns in huntspeak. But in Common, the risk of being overheard is too great.

The Garlean has taken the lead; abruptly he stops, prods the ground with his gunblade, and turns. Apparently the Imperials _were_ smart enough to set traps–but as Evrard follows him in this new route, something clicks under the elezen’s foot. 

And then half a dozen armed, armored Imperials charge out of the shack, and as far as Sevet can tell all seven hells break loose. He fits an arrow to his bowstring, but he can’t tell where to aim– _there_ , where the Garlean is the center of a haze of steel? Or _there_ , where Evrard is sending his own opponents scrambling with razor-sharp shards of ice? Or–

Their Garlean’s roar cuts through his indecision. “Find Tiber!”

 _Tiber…?_ Oh. Right. The Garlean they’d came for. In the chaos of battle, no one has yet marked Sevet as a target; it’s too easy to cut around the melee and sprint for the open door of the shack where it’s far too quiet, where the smell–scorched flesh, he recognizes now–is too strong.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they do, he can make out a pale pink Garlean tied to a chair, deep burns scrawled over his chest and one shoulder. The pattern looks oddly, unsettlingly familiar. He can just make out the suggestion of curved wings, spiralled suns…

 _Yala’s tattoos._ Something shifts in the shadows; too late, he realizes that what he’d taken for a darker shadow was another Imperial. But this one is a miqo’te. A Seeker, like him, with sandy eyes and sandy skin and eyes like embers. And she is staring at him, eyes wide with shock or fear, and she looks _so familiar_ –

His voice cracks. “Aunt–Aunt Temira?!”

“You look familiar.” Q’temira Leiwo has nearly the same voice as his other aunt Tenyanya. She’s holding a wand, but doesn’t level it at him; she’s still searching his face. “Ah. Shaness’s oldest. I _thought_ we’d picked a dreadful hiding spot.”

He can feel his tail bristling. The bow in his hand is starting to feel increasingly like an afterthought. “One of your buddies sang like a bird. We–” He has to take a breath. “We thought you were dead. For _twenty_ years, we thought–”

The Garlean stirs, croaking something indistinct. One eye opens and attempts to focus on him. Temira’s ears flick, and she moves before Sevet’s eyes can follow; one moment she’s standing still, the next aether is surging around her and resolving in a crack of thunder that knocks him off his feet and into something hard and metallic, leaving lines of pain across his back and forcing the breath from his lungs. When he can think again, she is gone.

And the floor where she stood is on fire, emitting a foul-smelling oily smoke. He’s stunned for a second that feels like a small eternity before he remembers. _Right. Save the Garlean._ Who turns out to be three hundred ponzes of dead weight, mumbling things in that garlic tongue that sounds like rattling bones together, but at least he’s alive and they have what they came for.

They have what they came for. Their mission was a success, and the Garlean will probably recover if all he has is burns. But when Evrard and his Garlean ask about the Imperial’s leader, it takes a long time for Sevet to respond.


	5. Revelation (Evrard Briardionne)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 3 of 3

Alanais pyr Venditor was an Imperial decurion. 

Evrard had known this. Had known this since about half a bell after pulling the man out of the snow, after getting him somewhere warm and dry so he could examine his wounds, after knives had been put away and proper introductions made. Alanais pyr Venditor was an Imperial. A Garlean. And most importantly, a deserter who had dropped his gunblade for good.

Alan Vesper had taken it up again. And Alan Vesper was…

 _My friend. A good man. A man who loves the Fury and his dog and freedom. A man who hates war._ It was hard to remember that now, staring at Alan over the pieces of their opponents. There was blood on his gunblade. There was blood in his _hair_. “By the blessed Fury.” Oh, he’d said that out loud.

Alan jerked upright to stare back at him, eyes wide. The decurion vanished, replaced by Evrard’s short, awkwardly shy friend all over again. “I’m sorry, I–lost my temper. I didn’t mean to… _gods_.” He’d noticed the states of the corpses. For a moment he looked as though he might be sick, and his distress woke Evrard up.

Hastily, he cleared his throat and took a cautious step forward. “‘Tis quite alright. You’re–” _A better fighter than I thought. A good man to have at my side. A…_

“A monster, I know.” If Alan had proper ears, they’d be drooping. 

And Evrard abruptly decided he’d had enough. Two more strides got him within range, and a swift motion sent his hand thwacking into the side of Alan’s head. “ _Never_ say that again. I have met monsters, Alan, and they never see their misshapen forms when they look in the mirror. You strive every day I’ve known you to be better, and I say you’ve bloody well succeeded.”

He blinked up at him, stunned. “I…um. If you…say so?”

“I do.” Evrard turned and stalked towards the shack where Q’sevet Tia was stumbling out unharmed. It was time to check on Tiber.


	6. Dedication (Temira eir Harenata)

Q’temira Leiwo’s tribe has done nothing for her. Terret is strong as a buffalo, but his heart is weak; her older brother cares more for his wives and children than he does for the duties of a Nunh to lead his people in war with the Amal’jaa. Tenbe is more clever and she’s always been fond of him, but her younger brother will take no actions that do not benefit him. Neither of them understand or care to learn about womens’ things, about the work she and her sisters do thanklessly each day.

Weave the clothes. Bathe the children. Sing the sun to rising and the dead to their graves. These are holy things. Good things. Important things. Things that the priestesses of Azeyma _must_ do, for the proper order of the tribe. She’s never wanted to weave or herd or bear children or throw pots, and she supposes she should be proud when her mother says she will lead the priestesses some day. That she should be proud to be remembered in the genealogies beyond a list of Q’leiwo Nunh’s get.

The Imperials come upon her and her brother’s wives gathering herbs for medicines too close to one of their castra, and she bows her head and goes without a fight. _To spare us_ , Q’yaanhari will tell her daughter years later. ( _To betray us_ , Q’shaness will growl to her son.) 

She is trained, fed, sheltered. She takes a name, one she has chosen. She takes harder and more dangerous missions, earning her rank by more than the simple magic that any woman of the Puk tribe ought to be capable of. Her tattoos fade, nearly invisible on her dark skin. And finally, the day comes.

In the wake of Baelsar’s Wall, Temira eir Harenata returns to Eorzean soil.


	7. A Reasonable Rebuttal (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

Alan has his strong arms around her, his lips pressed reverently to the edge of the scales on her throat, and she is melting into the mattress under them. The world can end and she won’t care as long as he keeps tracing her scales like that, leaving heat behind like a brand; when she runs a hand down his back she can feel his sigh of pleasure in her bones. _Never let this end._

His voice is a whisper; she feels it, that ticklish exhale, before she even hears it. “I don’t deserve you.”

She’s fairly sure she briefly transcends matter altogether. The ice that abruptly solidifies her veins hits so hard that she actually snarls, jerking away from him; as he freezes and panics and starts to (oh, _fuck_ him) _apologize_ , she wraps all her limbs around him to keep him in place. She has her legs around his hips and her tail twined around his thighs and she can’t even enjoy it. “Excuse you?”

He’s stammering, eyes wide. “But it’s true–I–that is–”

She buries a hand in his hair, steering his head down so she can (gently) press her forehead scale plate to his third eye. “No. It’s not. I picked you for _reasons_ , Alan. Would you like a list?” She’s never actually made a list. She’s pretty sure she can improvise.

It’s actually sort of adorable watching him go red and cross-eyed. “I. Um.” His skin burns against hers as he mutters, “You really don’t have to. It’s just–you’re _amazing_ and I’m…”

“Strong?” Both their heartbeats are calming to normal rates as she pets along his spine; touching him _helps_. “Smart as all seven hells, the nicest guy I’ve met and you don’t take shit from _anyone_ and you can put a sword through a training dummy like a hot knife through butter.” She can’t help but smile. “And you care so much. You _love_ so much. You make me remember the world around me is worth loving too–you know how sometimes I get stuck only thinking about things that concern me _personally_ and–”

And then he’s kissing her breathless, which she’s pretty sure means that she’s won the argument.


	8. Gone But Not Forgotten (Portia Brewster)

She’d bought the miniature kit on a whim. Now that it was on her kitchen table, she wasn’t sure what to do with it. Opening it felt like defusing a bomb; instead, she poured herself a drink and stared out the window without seeing the sky.

_A dark, dull gray sky outside, the color of lead. The sun was trying to peek through, but it wasn’t having much success. She ate dried orange slices at the kitchen table, the smells of turpentine and fresh paint sharp in her nose, while across from her Petros fiddled with impossibly tiny brushes and machine-cut metal on an old drop cloth. A single perfect moment, marked by the ticking of the clock and the noises of the street outside._

She couldn’t remember if that had been the day she’d asked if he wanted help. She could, however, remember that her first painted miniature had turned out horrible, and Petros had soothed her wounded pride by showing off his lumpy, smudged first attempts. She could remember the way the corner of his eyes crinkled as he grinned, even if she wasn’t sure if they’d been blue or green when the light hit them.

“Rowr?”

Oh. Macchia’s head on her lap. She ruffled her dog’s ears quietly. “It’s okay. Mama’s just thinking.”

_Strong, careful hands. A sheepish smile and a flush that crept up his neck as he admitted he’d put together all the airships in bottles arranged on his shelves. Paint and ink and tiny little knives. The way he’d admitted once, in the dark of their bedroom, that he’d rather build than destroy._

She opened the kit.


	9. Delight (Hoelun Bayaqud)

“What are _these?”_

“What—oh, the fruit. Rolanberries. You…don’t have those in Othard?”

“Maybe we do, but not on the Steppes! How do you eat them?”

“You just eat ‘em, girl.”

“Oh, Loren. Are you sure?”

“…Eat ‘em or I will—not that fast, you’ll make yourself sick.”

“Grphnfrgh…gnp. I, Audentis, am an udgan of the Bayaqud. I will not be laid low by _fruit_. And even if I was, I’d go with no regrets! These are really, _really_ good. Is there any more?”

“…No.”

“I see you eating some! Right there in your hand!”

“Aye, and they’re not for a greedyguts lizard like—you hit me with your _tail?!”_


	10. "Dance with me" (Ritanelle Soleil/Emmanellain de Fortemps)

It was amazing what being a ward of House Fortemps could get you. Invitations to House Durendaire’s latest ball, for example, a glittering fete sure to be _the_ social event of the season. Her squad had needed a break, they’d agreed—and so, after a solid week of shopping and measuring and fitting and haberdashery (it was hard to find hats that would fit over miqo’te ears), the whole pack of them spilled out of their carriages and into the Durendaires’ main hall.

Ritanelle began to regret it almost immediately. They should have arrived earlier; being “fashionably late” to squeeze into the antechamber (Honoroit had vetoed his master’s initial choice of waistcoat) led them squarely in the midst of a crowd unlike anything she’d ever seen. While she was no stranger to crowds of people, the sheer _brightness_ made her eyes hurt. Everything shone or glittered or was polished to a mirror sheen; bright colors assaulted her eyes; conversation that might have been quiet in a room containing five people was a concussive force in a room with nearly five hundred. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t _handle_ it. Her head was pounding, a beat that had nothing to do with the Echo. _They haven’t announced us yet, I could just–_

A hand at the small of her back, warm even through layers of silk and whalebone. A light voice, as casual as the carefully tousled hairstyle he wore. “Alright there, old girl?”

She snapped her eyes and her fan open, taking a deep breath as she met Emm’s concerned gaze. Right. Steady. Her heartbeat was _fine_. “Bright lights. Open spaces. You know what I mean.” Even if he’d needed the morphological differences between Duskwights and Wildwoods explained very slowly. She was adjusting, and she’d been looking forward to this for _weeks_. As long as she had her friends by her side, surely she could handle this. “It was just a bit of a shock. I’ll be fine.”

His ears slowly slanted back as he took in the crowded ballroom, but by the time he looked back at her he’d arranged his face in the bright, false smile he wore when he was worried but trying not to show it (in other words, all the time). “Once the dancing starts, I’m sure you won’t notice a thing! See—the musicians are warming up.”

They were. She recognized the opening strains of a waltz and found herself smiling in response. “Do I get more than one dance if I don’t step all over your feet?”

His hand on her back slid until it was his arm around her waist; the light kiss he pressed to her temple would probably power the rumor mills for months, a thought which made her grin. “Dear Rita, you will have _every_ dance even _if_ you step on my feet. I’ll see to it you have a marvelous time.”

“Unless you’re forced to duel someone over whatever rude thing they’ve said about Gan or Eirk’a?”

That made him snort wrily, gesturing to where Artoirel was pointedly introducing her miqo’te and auri squadmates to their hosts. “I daresay I shan’t have the chance, and in any case Honoroit would be dreadfully put out if anyone bled on this waistcoat. Shall we?”

Her eyes gleamed as a thought took her. “What, just like that? My lord, where _are_ your manners?”

His elaborate bow hid his smirk, but she could feel it against her glove as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. Behind him, Gan was giggling; Artoirel looked as though he’d like to bury his face in his hands. Emmanellain’s voice dripped with overbred politeness and no small amount of glee at, however briefly, being the center of attention. “My lady, may I have this dance?”

By some miracle, she managed to keep a straight face. “You may.”

The ballroom itself was still crowded, still too bright and too loud, but—to her surprise—Emmanellain was right. Dancing _helped_. Her world narrowed to the feel of silk skirts against silk stockings, the warmth of Emm’s hands, the way his hair brushed her ear as he held her too close for strict propriety. Even when she stumbled on a step or missed a beat, he corrected their course so smoothly she didn’t even feel embarrassed. She floated with the music, held to earth by his hands.

When the waltz ended, he was beaming softly down at her. “Why, you didn’t hear a single word of any of the news I’ve been trying to impart to you this whole time, did you?”

He’d been talking? At her blank stare, he let out a bark of laughter so loud that other couples turned and stared, and she flushed and poked him in the ribs. “You great arse, you _know_ I was concentrating!”

“I know, I know!” His grin was unrepentant—and infectious. “Another dance, darling? It should be the minuet. Fewer…distractions.”

 _Darling._ Even though that earned him another poke, she was still grinning as she retreated to proper minuet distance.


	11. Company (Evrard Briardionne)

Evrard lives alone. He sleeps alone, walks alone—he takes his meals alone, too, half perched on a rickety chair in what passes for the chapel kitchens. He prefers it that way; while he surely _likes_ other people well enough, he has enough demands on his time from his congregation. He does not need to share his space with another living being at all times.

Of course, then a wounded adventurer collapses in the Coerthan snows not half a step away from Grynalet’s talons, and well–Evrard can’t simply leave him there. Not even when the man tries to rob him (which Evrard blames on his head injury) or turns out to be an Imperial deserter (the key word, Evrard thinks, being _deserter_. He cannot blame a man who walks towards the light.)

And so Alanais pyr Venditor, former decurion, comes to share his room at the church while he recovers from injuries received, if he is to be trusted (and Evrard cannot think he would _lie_ ) when his former commanding officer brought their castrum down on his head. At first, Evrard pities him; the man has been stationed in Eorzea for years, yet knows almost nothing of the lands he’d been sent to. His injuries pain him despite Evrard’s best efforts to tend them; the priest cannot be surprised when he begins to join him in thanking the Fury that they were not worse. In all the land, the only friend he has is his loyal hound (who, despite her size, is _adorable_ and adored by every small child they meet).

That is at first. It takes a few weeks of Alan’s steady physical improvement for Evrard to begin gritting his teeth at night. The man _snores_. His hound is both flatulent and prone to sprawling over a bed that had been intended for one man, not two—and certainly not for a full-grown canis pugnax on top of it. It’s impossible to scrape up a meal each day with the dog underfoot and Alan hovering awkwardly. There’s simply no space–not in the bed, not in the kitchen, and not in what passes for a washroom, where they need to crowd around a propped-up hand mirror if they wish to shave.

Though he’s still concerned for the newly rechristened Alan Vesper’s wellbeing, when the man announces he’s found paying work (so long as he keeps his hat on, so long as nobody asks too many prying questions), Evrard is glad to be alone again.


	12. An Unexpected Journey (Q'sevet Tia)

Gridania hadn’t been Sevet’s first choice—he’d wanted to go to Ul’dah, to the big city, where there was noise and light and entertainment—but Kerahn had heard there were guilds for their preferred weapons there, so north it had been. It had taken them three solid days to cross the border on foot, and then a further stay being glared at in the fortress town of Quarrymill while, apparently, the elementals decided to accept them. (Sevet suspected it was more accurate that the Hearers just wanted to see if they were troublemakers.) After all that, the city itself was sprawling and underwhelming. Bustling, yes—it was the largest city they’d ever seen, full of fellow adventurers going about their business. But Sevet had heard that Ul’dah had paved roads and widespread indoor plumbing, so he frankly wasn’t impressed. Still, he thought, maybe the Archer’s Guild would welcome him.

He’d taken barely three steps into the hall before a sharp, bitter voice caught his ear, sending ice cascading down his spine.

“Damnable _cat_ —oh, aye, you’re a hunter? You’re a _hunter?_ And what do savage little _hunters_ know of archery?”

His heart seemed to slow down, pulsing under skin that suddenly felt too tight. He felt his ears pin back and his jaw drop in a snarl before he was even conscious of either motion; slowly, on legs that didn’t quite seem to belong to him, he stalked into the room that had been repurposed as a shooting range. There. a tall elezen man was in the process of berating a Keeper woman. As the abuse washed over him—she was savage, uncivilized, she was a disgrace to the profession, she was _unworthy_ –Sevet felt a single word crystallize in his mind.

_No._

Looking back on it, he was fairly sure he’d shouted something. It might have been _shut up_ or _leave her alone_ or _how dare you_. It might have been a full-throated yowl. When he came back to himself, there was blood under his claws and the elezen—Silvairre, apparently–was clutching his bleeding face and yelling for him to be dragged out.

When Kerahn was thrown into the room at the Adventurer’s Guild where Mother Miounne had insisted he just needed to cool his head, growling something about Duskwights and lancers, Sevet did not say _I told you so_.

When he couldn’t resist asking which way Ul’dah was again, Kerahn threw a pillow at him.


	13. One More Chance (Evrard Briardionne)

They’ve written scattered letters back and forth—a page here, a few more pages there–but it has been months since he’s seen Busari in the flesh. Months since he’s had to face all seven fulms of black scales and white hair and the glowing golden eyes he sees in his dreams. Months since he’s—

_Make me forget._

They’ve never talked about that part. They sit in the inn and drink their ale and eat their dinners and continue not to talk about that part. They keep on not talking about that part as Evrard goes up to his room, as Busari follows, as Evrard stands in the hallway with his hand on the door latch—

And somewhere, some spark of courage and certainty catches flame within his heart.

And he says, in a voice that does not shake, “I’d like you to stay.”


	14. "What's in my tumbler? Regret." (Tiber Gallius)

The Seventh Heaven wasn’t Tiber’s ideal bar—it was too loud, too rough, and the drinks invariably scorched your throat on the way down—but right now it was his only option, and the convenience made up for it. Beer was safe, even if it was sweeter than he would have preferred to go with the thick-cut ham sandwich (fresh ham! he was still getting used to that) he was attempting to eat for lunch. The key word there was _attempting_ ; he didn’t have much of an appetite.

He liked his job. The Scions were…not precisely _friendly_ , but polite enough. He had his own bunk, his own closet, and he was assured that nobody would try to steal what few possessions he now owned. Really, it was better than being dead. But…

But. Well.

_Hey you, Garlean._

_The Scions pick up pet Imperials now?_

_Sorry, that’s not for sale to the likes of you._

They saw his third eye under his hat, heard the accent he was trying—really _trying_ —to lessen. No Eorzean adventurers or Doman expatriates had a reason to like Garleans, Scion or no. He could feel their eyes on him even now. The few gil in his pocket clinked when he shifted in his seat, and he hoped they’d be enough to settle his tab. Back home, he never would have had such a potential humiliation. Back home he’d been _Young Tiber_ or _the Gallius boy_ or _Hey Tibs do you want the usual?_ He’d been a part of the neighborhood just as surely as the stones under his feet.

Here, he was a weapon.


	15. Climbing Trees (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

“I don’t know how.”

Eirk’a was staring at her as though she’d grown a second head, and she lashed her tail through the grass as she hurried to explain, “Look—have you ever been to the Azim Steppes? There are not a lot of trees! It is very flat!” Rocks and cliffs, yes—those, she could scramble up and down like an aldgoat. But Eirk’a had suggested scaling a tree in the midst of the Black Shroud, and her face burned at the admission that she didn’t know if she could. _I am the worst representative of the Bayaqud._

And then he grinned at her, all sharp and bright and familiar. “I’ll teach you, then. It’s not hard.”

It was harder than she’d expected. Bark scraped her hands, twigs knocked into her horns, and she had to stop several times to swat hungry insects. All in all, she’d much rather have been climbing rocks. 

But when she finally sat on a branch next to Eirk’a, gazing out at the sky above the Shroud’s canopy, she decided it had been worth it.

“…You were right.”

“Hm?”

“This forest…isn’t bad.”


	16. Lawful Duty (Tiber Gallius)

Civilize the savages; after all, they are future citizens of the Empire. Maintain order. See that everyone under your supervision does their jobs. Punish those who fall out of line. Look the other way and keep your mouth shut no matter how the Aan are treated in your presence. They are only cogs in the grand machine of Empire that you, Decurion, are helping to run.

It would be poetic, Tiber thinks later, if he had been thinking about any of that when he executed Julius oen Ferrarus. No, that had come later, when the rage had settled to a low boil instead of a blinding haze, when he could see past the local woman’s instinctive cries for help and the iron knife through his mind of _How dare he._

The rest of the Legion may do as they please, but his orders to his squad had been very clear—along with the punishment for defiance. Looking back, he’s pretty sure they hadn’t expected their new Decurion to have the spine. He remembers the way they’d barely held back their scorn.

He remembers Ferrarus’s blood spraying over his boots, the terrible silence that had followed the report of his gunblade. He remembers kicking Ferrarus’s nearly headless corpse away from the woman he’d been about to lay hands on in direct violation of Tiber’s orders, letting her scramble to her feet and run off before he can find the Common tongue in his head to ask if she’d be alright. He remembers his own voice, tight with fury.

“Does any other man in this company wish to disobey me?”

He doesn’t remember the feel of the gunblade in his hand. Nor does he remember until later that he ought to have stood by and let it happen. After all, they were only savages.

He remembers the manual. He remembers his mother’s words.

_Your father always said that as an officer, you have a duty to use your power with care. To…to harm the defenseless, that is the mark of a bully, not a gentleman. You understand, Tiber?_

He remembers his duty. He thinks his father might be proud.


	17. Loyalty (Evrard Briardionne)

The Weekeses are thieves. Everyone in the parish knows it, and nobody mentions it. They never take anything from the truly destitute, and it’s not as though thievery makes them rich. Like the rest of Our Lady’s Mercy, they’re just barely scraping by. The congregation had taken great pains to keep it hidden from their previous priest, a sour-faced man who would surely have turned them in to the Temple Knights—and Missus Weekes with child again, and their daughter stone blind–but Evrard? Well. He’s fresh out of the Scholasticate, young and stupid, and he finds out in the first month when he sells the chapel’s gold candlesticks.

Everyone is deathly cold and grindingly poor. To steal is a sin, so says the Enchiridion. To take bread from the mouths of your fellows is heresy, so says the Inquisition.

When he had taken up his post, this chapel in the deepest corner of the Brume had been set with gold candlesticks and antique pews.

Miss Weekes begs him not to tell anyone, and he nods—and then remembers that she cannot see it, and makes it a solemn vow. ‘Tis unlikely the Temple Knights will bother chasing petty thieves this far down, anyway. They’ll be fine, and he’ll never need be tested.

His self-satisfaction lasts an entire three days.

“Quickly—in here!”

The door slams shut behind the three oldest Weekeses as they dive behind the pulpit, eyes wide with terror. He has a moment to wonder what’s frightened them, but before he can voice the question he gets his answer.

“Open up! In the name of the Temple Knights!”

Back straight, ears neutral, robes as neat as he can make them, Evrard faces the trio of armored thugs at the door of his chapel. His gaze falls on their shining armor, so unlike the thrice-patched tunics on the streets, and a glacial stillness seeps through his soul as they huff and puff through their explanations.

“Thieves…? Nay, sers. Halone harbors no thieves within Her house.”


	18. Taking A Stand (Tiphanie Mercer)

Once upon a time, she had no great ambitions.

Once upon a time, she had studied for the priesthood not out of any greater love for Halone than that borne by most of her fellow students, but merely from a desire to do something reasonably respectable with her life and make her parents proud.

Once upon a time, she had thought only of the next day, and the next, and wondered not what the future would bring. Why bother? Ishgard was as eternal as the stone upon which it was built. As it was, so it would ever be.

Once upon a time…

And then the war had ended, and the lies had been ripped away. And as Ishgard blinked in the light, its people discovered there was space to move.

The sky had not been so bright before. The halls of power had not been open before. Her wielding it in her own right had never been a possibility before.

Ishgard’s highest secular authority was no longer her Archbishop, but her Parliament.

And Tiphanie Mercer would be among their number. 


	19. Schadenfreude (Q'yala Terret)

Castrum Meridianum was burning, and Q’yala Terret walked through the fire. She leapt over rivers of blood and molten metal, waved aside enemy attacks with a gesture. The Imperials couldn’t touch her. She was a blessed daughter of the sun, and she _burned_. 

She remembered A’aba. She remembered Aulie. She remembered the sylph Noraxia. She remembered the Waking Sands silent and cold and bloodstained, the deaths she’d arrived too late to prevent. The castrum burned, and she sucked in a breath of clear air. 

Above the gunfire and spellfire and the screams of the dying, she threw her head back and laughed.


	20. Too Close (Tiber Gallius)

The Resistance falls upon his unit like a pack of wolves, and Tiber pyr Gallius thinks _No_.

Oen Sylvanni falls and he never liked him but still, these soldiers, veterans of the Legion all, are his. His to defend, his to—no. He won’t think about oen Ferrarus’s end now. He would still do it again. Sylvanni is still fighting, and Tiber pyr Gallius rushes to his side—

A cry of pain from the back of the battlefield, and he knows the voice of kir Praecelsa before the Resistance soldiers drag his medic into view. He’s shaking and bloody and Tiber pyr Gallius thinks again _No_.

“Drop your sword and come with us, and your men will live.”

Drop your sword. Such simple words, delivered loud and clear so even he can understand them. Drop your sword, leave your honor and pride in the dust, and your men—the bullying, bigoted, vicious jackals who call you Decurion and spit on the ground—will live.

And you will die. He knows what the Eorzeans do to officers. It’s not quick. Nor should it be, he thinks, not after what he’s seen his own legion do to them. Better by far to die fighting, a true soldier of the Empire.

There are ten soldiers under his command. There is one heart in his chest.

Tiber pyr Gallius drops his sword.


	21. "I don't think it's supposed to work like that." (Hoelun Bayaqud)

Garleans were weird. Traveling with them was weirder. Traveling with them in their airships? Now that went straight past weird and into _bizarre_. But she had to look out for Valentin, and Loren owed him, and so here she was. In an airship. With Garleans.

And Valentin had been put to work in the hold rearranging the cargo while Loren steered. Hoelun perched on the rafters, tail wrapped around a support beam, and admired the view. Valentin had shed his shirt some time ago.

Finally, she thought she should probably speak up. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“What—in the Emperor’s name—” He straightened up, wiping his forehead, and glared up at her. “Doing _what_ wrong?”

“Stacking.” She gestured at the crates. “See, that long one will topple over.”

He folded his arms. “That long one is load-bearing. And it’s wedged in next to the munitions. It’s not moving.”

She thought about the speeds she’d felt Loren take the ship to. She thought about turbulence and windstorms.

And then she shrugged. “If you say so.”

After a long hard stare at her, he sighed and went to move the crates again.


	22. Celebrating (Tiber Gallius)

They were alive. They were _alive_. The Empire had brought a full cohort down on them, backed by signifers and magitek and a bloody gunship, but they were alive and as unscathed as they could hope for. Tiber thought he might collapse just from the joy of it. And Vivian had been _glorious_. The mage was leaning on their staff by his side, but as he turned to them he found his words— _you’re incredible, magnificent, I understand how worship works now_ —die in his throat.

Vivian was smiling at him. There was blood on their robes and their hair was an absolute mess, but they were smiling at him. “Tiber.”

 _My name._ He was always _Gallius_ , as Vivian—at least out loud where Viv could hear him—was always _Capsari_. It was polite. Friendly, to drop the article, but distant. A colleague, not a bosom companion.

He didn’t want a colleague. He wanted—and in the space of a heartbeat, he closed the distance between them and pulled Vivian into his arms, ignoring their startled noise to bury his face in their hair. He wished desperately he wasn’t wearing armor. He knew there was deliciously solid strength in the body under those robes, but it might as well have been on the moon for all he could feel it. “Vivian.” He breathed in slowly, smelling smoke and lightning and blood. “You’re _amazing_.”

“You…” Oh, dear, they sounded annoyed. “Are squashing me.”

The realization of what he was doing hit him like a physical blow; as he pulled back, he knew his face was burning. “I’m sorry, I—” False gods, and he’d addressed them so informally, too.

“I didn’t say _stop_.” They were cleaning their glasses nonchalantly, but he saw a flush creeping up their ears. “But I think we should save the celebrations until later.”

Later? There was going to be a _later?_ “Viv—Capsari—”

But Vivian was already walking away, and he had to hurry to catch up.


	23. Moments You Never Forget (Evrard Briardionne)

The shock hasn’t set in yet; he is a lamb waiting for the knife. “Master Briardionne, I’m sorry to say your parents have passed.”

Relief and pride, tinged with sorrow for those who never will see his success, as the bishop anoints him. “Rise, Father Evrard, and serve the Church well.”

Cold. Bitter cold, spearing his lungs, and the steadily mounting dread that it is not enough to burn the pews for kindling if he is to keep his parish’s souls firmly attached to their bodies. He hears his own voice from a long way off. “How much will you give me for this copy of the Enchiridion?”

A clawed hand in his, and his heart lodges in his throat. He thinks he could drown in golden eyes. “Thank you.”

Rage. Sick, bitter rage and disbelief—at the lie, and the idea he has been lied to. That his _faith_ has been lied to. His congregation looks to him for answers, and he has none. “Father Evrard, is it true?”

It is too much. It’s all too much. His nation is built on a lie, his people are in danger, and he has failed them. And there is nothing he can do. Clawed hands at his hip, a tail wrapping around his legs, and his voice only shakes a little. “Make me forget. Just for tonight…make me forget.”

Shock at first, and then awe. The shadow of a dragon’s wings swoop low, bearing a child on her back, and even prayers fail him. “Father Evrard, is that—?”

“Vidofnir.”


	24. Different/The Same (Tiber Gallius, Portia Brewster)

She is the elder; he is the younger.

Her hair is platinum; his is gold.

She has all the musical talent of a brick; he’d brought his saxophone with him to a war zone.

She’s never met an authority figure she liked; he, however briefly, was one to his men.

She has forsworn the use of weapons; he lifts shield and sword and charges into battle for a living.

She had never dreamed of glory like he had, only to see it crushed; her pain had come in fire and the shattered pieces of Dalamud.

And yet…

They both love their family.

They both love their homeland—the mountains, the cities, all the steel and glass and smoke of it and the dim gray sky above.

They both hate the Empire which rules it in an iron grip.

And they have both sworn—to each other, not on the Emperor’s name or their grandfather’s metaphorical bones (Tiber dus Gallius is very much alive and wouldn’t appreciate it anyway) that one day, even should it take their dying breath, they will set Garlemald free of its yoke of shadows.

They both are children of steel.


	25. One Last Shot (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

Gantsetseg had been prepared for the Naadam. She’d been prepared to fight the Oronir, the Buduga, even the half-mad Dotharl. Fierce they may be, but they were all Xaela, and this was the Naadam—the only fight on the steppes which could be said to have rules. She’d known what she had to do.

She had _not_ been prepared for the Imperial squadron thundering into range. Shock had briefly taken over her skill, and then the battle was joined and there was no time to think, only act.

 _There_ —an unprotected flank.

 _There_ —the splintering crash of a reaper falling to the ground.

 _There_ —ah. Their leader. He was a big roegadyn in green armor, roaring orders, and seemed to have a particular grudge against the visibly Eorzean Scions and adventurers by her side. More importantly, he was armed with a huge chainsaw and—oh. Bugger. He’d noticed her lining up a shot and now he had the nerve to be in her face.

“I’ll kill you!”

 _Not if I kill you first._ She just needed—ah, there, one of the adventurers was engaging him. She centered herself, leveling her rifle—

And was thrown off her feet along with the rest of the battlefield as Sadu Khatun’s khun chuluu rose along with her jubilant laughter.

_Oh, bloody hell._


	26. Hot Summer Nights (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

There were probably a few places that were darker than the inside of a yurt with lights out, but Gantsetseg was reasonably sure she couldn’t think of any. _If I could,_ she thought grumpily, _I’d move there._

She couldn’t sleep. It was dark and quiet and her bedroll was comfortable, but she _couldn’t sleep_. Even with the blankets kicked off and the soft felt tent covers rolled half a fulm off the ground, her thinnest shirt and most abbreviated shorts were just barely on the comfortable side of too hot; not for the first time, she found herself pondering what Alan’s reaction would be if she just slept naked. She had a feeling he’d faint. Even now, after three months together, she caught him staring at her at the oddest times with an expression she could only call awe.

She’d asked him about it once. He’d whispered, _I can’t believe you’re real._

It had struck her to the core, so of course she’d laughed it off. She found herself regretting that now, as she rolled over to stare at the slightly paler patch in the darkness that was his sleeping form. They were only a few ilms apart, but it felt like malms; she wasn’t sure if it had been bells or centuries ago that they’d kissed goodnight and pulled the covers up around each other. Her hand hovered in the space between them, one finger stretching out to trace the curve of his spine, but she let it fall. If only it wasn’t too godsdamned hot to _touch_. If only they were somewhere cooler—the beach, maybe, she doubted Alan had ever been to Costa del Sol and with the madness surrounding them they _deserved_ a place with cool breezes where she could wrap herself around him or curl up in his arms and…

Ugh. It was even too hot to think about _that._ But as she reserved those thoughts for later and her eyes readjusted to the dark, she found her gaze exploring him: the muscles of his back, the fall of his loose hair—it was getting longer, and she had to fight the urge to bury her hands in it every time they kissed—the line of his neck, soft and unprotected where an auri man would have tough scales. Most of his scars were on his front, but there was one, thin and sharp, that had looped around to his shoulder. An auri man would have scales there, too. Alanais pyr Venditor had had nothing but cermet to protect him from her arrow.

She laid on her side, watching him sleep. She couldn’t picture him with scales. Nor horns, nor a tail; her cousin Hoelun might say that those made up a proper partner, but she couldn’t agree. Not anymore. Soft skin. Soft ears. Tiny little teeth and no magic and…and a heart of gold. _Mum, Da, Papa, I wish you could see. He’s not who you would have approved of, but he loves me and vows to protect me and I…_

Alan Vesper was defenseless in slumber next to her and she couldn’t _not_ touch him, even _with_ the summer heat. She slid her tail out of the edge of the blankets, curving it around to drape loosely over his hips. He shifted and for a moment she froze, afraid she’d wake him—gods, he needed sleep—but he only let out a sigh and settled back down. There was the faintest grumble. It might, she thought, have been her name.

 _I love_ _him_ _._ She breathed out slowly, felt the certainty of it pulse through her heart. _I love_ _him_ _, and if I wasn’t so afraid I’d scare_ _him_ _away I’d spend every minute showing_ _him_ _how much._ _Nhaama, are you listening? Keep this man safe. Even if I should fall, keep him safe._

_…And while I’ve got your attention, sending a nice cool breeze wouldn’t hurt._


	27. Walking Away (Shinju Toyotama)

It was never warm in Sui-no-Sato. The sun’s rays didn’t reach that far. But somehow, Shinju thought it was colder now as she made her way to Haruto’s house. Haruto, her new fiance. 

He came outside to meet her, dressed in a dark blue kimono that set off the brilliance of his white scales. He wasn’t smiling. “Shinju.”

She met his gaze, shifting as the weight of her bag bit into her shoulder. “I came to tell you that I’m leaving. Now.”

He took a step backwards, gazing up at the dome above them. She thought, from the way his tail twitched, he was mostly doing it to avoid looking at her. “Hm. Pleasant travels to…Eorzea, was it? Where those outsiders came from.”

She nodded, belatedly remembered he wasn’t looking in her direction, and murmured, “Yes. I thought you should know, so that your family does not go making…other arrangements.”

“And damage this one?” He snorted caustically, shaking his head. “My father is not so foolish. More’s the pity.”

 _Would that he were._ She bowed, keeping her face expressionless. “I will see you in a year’s time, then. Kami watch over you.”

And then she turned to find her way to the manta stables. If he gave a reply, she didn’t hear it.


	28. Silent Fury (Shinju Toyotama)

Be quiet. Be demure. Don’t stick out. Don’t be disrespectful.

Don’t scream.

Toyotama-no-Shinju walks through Sui-no-Sato on her fiance’s arm, aware of their parents’ glances along every scale, every line of clothing. Haruto’s smile is polished as a mirror, and as empty; if her parents weren’t here and if he didn’t want to combine their families’ shops so badly, he’d never touch her. But riches and a chance at a contract with the palace is enough for him to be here, smiling, even when they both know that on the morrow she’ll be leaving with the adventurers for the surface.

“You won’t forget me while you’re gone?”

She makes sure that her lips cover her fangs when she smiles up at him. (She wouldn’t bite him _hard,_ she thinks. Just enough so that he never, ever speaks to her again in that wheedling tone.)

“Of course I won’t.”


	29. One Chance (Evrard Briardionne)

In another world, Evrard Briardionne rides past the tattered, bloodstained man crumpled in the snow, judging him too far gone to help.

In another world, that man never even makes it to Coerthas, cut down by an adventurer’s blade for his sins.

In another world, the illness that takes Evrard’s parents sweeps through the Scholasticate as well, and he dies before ever being ordained.

In another world, Alanais Venditor is never assigned to the XIVth; he rises safely through the ranks in far-off Othard, never questioning his path in life and the rightness of subjugating the savages.

In yet another world, Evrard listens to each sharp-edged word preached in each Mass until his fear and hatred outweigh his calcified heart, and he spares the frozen corpse of a heretic not even a glance.

But in _this_ world, Evrard halts in snow that is rapidly becoming a blizzard, snow crusting his robes, and stretches out a hand to help Alan Vesper to his feet again.


	30. Collapse (Pavo Rabanastre)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look out below it's a NEW ALT.

Their rebellion--their revolution, their _restoration--_ is collapsing around Pavo’s ears, and all he can do is breathe. The Imperials haven’t found this hideout yet (a dry offshoot of the great waterways, damp and mossy but safe); though he’s surrounded by other survivors, none of them dare to break the silence. He’s their leader with Kalju missing, and he has to listen for the slightest crackle of his linkpearl.

Boom.

_– breaking through –_

Boom. The slow, distant rumble of falling masonry.

_– by the gods, what is that thing?!_

Screaming. Even through half a malm of earth, he can hear the screaming.

He shuts his linkpearl off, closes his eyes, and focuses on his own breath. There will be time to add his own screams to the chorus later. For now, he must live.


	31. Accost (Portia Brewster)

Over the noise of the crafters’ tents, she couldn’t hear anyone approaching. False gods, there were days she thought a _bomb_ could have gone off without her realizing. Even if it had been quiet, though, there was the work. Nice, repetitive, soothing work. (Mend this hinge, reforge this knife, bash this armor back into shape. Simple things but _important_ , and things they trusted _her_ with.)

A hand landed heavy on her shoulder, and she almost jumped out of her skin. “Portia Brewster?”

Male, serious, heavily armored. Years of Imperial conditioning had her almost dropping her hammer on her foot as she spun to face him. It took some doing, admittedly; some part of her had never completely adjusted to how bloody tall roegadyn were. “Can I help you, sir?”

At least he looked briefly apologetic. “My superiors want to discuss your prior record.”

“You mean th’ part where she beat--“

“Of course, sir.”

“--with a _wrench--_ ”

“They _know_ that part, Rolfe!”


	32. Accursed (Gantsetseg & Hoelun Bayaqud)

The thrown bones scream death.

The winds howl from all corners of the Steppes--first from this direction, then from that, until the Bayaqud are left trembling in their yurts. Herders who go out to tend the flocks speak of white ravens circling above their rams’ heads. Gantsetseg shoots a black wolf to save her favorite dog, and is too late to make a difference. Mothers’ milk dries up.

In the heavens, Nhaama’s mare prances. Dances. Shines red _red **red--** _

Hoelun cuts the throat of her own mare, white as jade, and prays that Nhaama will be pleased with this, will find a gentler horse to ride.

Above her the sky turns to blood, red as her hands, and she knows they have failed.


	33. "careful, don't drop..." (Tiber Gallius)

“Careful, don’t drop – “

In his defense, Vivian had been lounging on the couch in a tank top that bared their (perfect) arms in their entirely and was doing interesting things to the solid muscle of their torso. It had been entirely bearable until they’d stretched, arms linking above their head as their back arched, and when Tiber had made an involuntarily strangled noise they’d _looked_ at him over the rim of their glasses…

So yes, Tiber drops the unreasonably heavy table he’d been helping Hoary Boulder walk across the Rising Stones. And yes, it lands directly on his foot. And _yes_ , Hoary Boulder starts snickering.

Until Tiber hisses “Coultenet” through gritted teeth, and the roegadyn shuts up. Tiber’s not the _only_ one flustered by pretty mages, thank you very much.


	34. "I've got everything under control" (Portia Brewster)

“I’ve got everything under control.” 

Maybe if she says it to herself enough times, she’ll believe it. Sure, she’s recovering from a gunshot wound in an infirmary staffed by people who have every reason to hate her. Sure, she’s just been revealed as a Garlean and her beloved dog as a canis pugnax. Sure, the interrogation and probable torture is likely to start as soon as she can rise unaided from the bed. But she’s alive, so there’s hope. Right?

Right.

By the time her mates at the crafting tents come to visit, she’s put on a brave face again. She can have her breakdown in private.


	35. "Why is it suddenly purple?" (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

“Why is it suddenly purple?” 

Gantsetseg likes the crew of the Skysteel Machinery well enough–sure, she’s the only au ra, but they’re polite and don’t look at her like she’s about to bite their heads off or turn into a dragon–but they _will_ persist in asking her stupid questions while she’s trying to work, and now she has to stop what she’s doing to answer. She sets her wrench down and gestures at the floating turret in front of her. “Last time, it failed too suddenly, yes? This time, the display lights will change color as the engine runs more hot. We will have warning.”

Nhaama’s tits, but she _hates_ how stupid she sounds in Common.

The elezen–Pascal-something, she thinks, who at least doesn’t mind being called Paz instead when she needs his attention–doesn’t seem to get it. “Well…yes, that’s great, and I’m sure the boss will love it, but why _purple?”_

It takes a moment for her to realize he means not only the steadily glowing ring around its chassis but the new paint job she’s given it. She’s proud of that paint job; it has shiny mica chips in it, giving the whole thing a metallic sheen. It reminds her of home, and the bright colors of her family’s yurt.

“I like purple.”


	36. "You need to stop." (Evrard Briardionne)

“You need to stop.”

He keeps his voice gentle. Quiet. Calm. Like soothing a wild beast, which isn’t far from the truth. A part of him hates himself for it, wants to pick Alanais up by the scruff of the neck and shake some sense into him, but he’s intelligent enough to know that wouldn’t help. Even if it _would_ make him feel better.

The Garlean is curled up in bed, facing the wall away from him. He’s been Evrard’s guest for nearly two weeks, reeling from the injuries to his body and spirit. It had been heartwrenching at first, but now it’s just irritating. He doesn’t respond to Evrard’s words at first.

Undeterred, he puts a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’re alive. Are you going to waste what the gods have given you?”

Alanais snorts bitterly. “The gods? They didn’t give me shite. And don’t say my life, because you know damn well I shouldn’t be alive. I don’t deserve it.”

He sucks in a breath, fingers twitching. The urge to slap the man upside the head is briefly overwhelming. “It is not for any of us to say whether we deserve the gods’ gifts or not. Only they can decide that. And _you_ –while you’re alive, ser, you can make amends for what you’ve done under the Imperial yoke. No such chance exists beyond the grave.”

“I–”

A dog barks outside, and Evrard freezes. For the first time, Alanais jolts upright. “Macchia?!”


	37. "I know you're afraid, but we can't hide in this closet forever." (Ritanelle Soleil)

“I know you’re afraid, but we can’t hide in this closet forever.”

Rita doesn’t care. She knows Eirk’a’s talking to her–indeed, he can’t be talking to anyone _else_ , their hiding space is so small he’s all but wedged into her chest–but she can’t move. She can barely even _breathe_. There are Gods’ Quiver officers out there, and if they see her–if they see her…

_Run. Hide._

_I don’t care if you call yourself a Scion, you’ll only ever be–_

_Murderer!_

He squeezes her arm and makes a noise, and after a small eternity she manages to loosen her hold enough for him to pull away. She’s stunned, then, when he leans against her again and starts to purr. It’s deep enough that the air vibrates with it, steadying the frantic pounding of her heart. Slowly, she starts to breathe deeply again.

His voice is so quiet she can barely hear it. “We’re Scions. You’re my best friend. They won’t be able to do anything to you out there, because you’re not alone.”

She nods.

“…So I’m going to open this door now, alright?”

They step out together, and she’s stopped shaking.


	38. "No, the house is definitely not haunted, why do you ask?" (Hoelun Bayaqud)

“No, the house is _definitely_ not haunted. Why do you ask?”

The hyur she’s blinking up at hasn’t stopped staring over her shoulder, eyes wide with terror. Through trembling lips, he forces out, “Ah. The, uh. The shadows…the bones…”

She turns to look behind her, suddenly suspicious. Sure enough, a tendril of shadow is trying to swirl around the desiccated bones of an unfortunate mouse. “Oh, _really?”_ Tail twitching irritably, she whacks it with her staff and turns back to the house’s owner. “Just residual energy; happens a lot with small animals that die violent deaths. I can give you charms for your kitchen and, ah, anywhere your cat likes to hunt. He probably won’t appreciate trying to kill an undead mouse!”

The hyur looks like he might faint. She frowns. _Is it that weird here? Everyone knows violent deaths don’t rest easy, it’s why you have exorcisms._ “Sir?”

He shoves her fee into her hands and buys every charm she has.


	39. "I don't care that it's 2 AM, we need pie." (Erasmus eir Niveus)

“I don’t care that it’s 2:00 am, we need pie.”

“This is a stakeout. You are aware of what a _stakeout_ is, Niveus?”

“Mate. Look at me. I’m bloody _starvin’_. Wastin’ away to skin and bones. Last time we ate was bells ago.”

“That doesn’t matter! We have to be disciplined, and, and focused, and–”

“Oooh. Whazzat your stomach?”

“Shut up. Shut up forever.”

“…I’m tellin’ ya. Pie. Street vendor down the way ain’t shut down his cart yet.”

“Fine. _Fine_. But you’re going! I like my head attached to my body, thanks.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“…Bloody swivin’ _bastard_ …”

“That sounds like someone that doesn’t want pie.”


	40. daughter of the earth (Ritanelle Soleil)

_There._

Normally she would never venture this far into Gridania, but the tunnel she had found on the Thanalan border had led her steadily northward, relying on the shifting air currents and the nearly imperceptible change in her footsteps’ echoes to keep her on the right path. No living Duskwight had walked these halls in a hundred years or more, but something—Hydaelyn?—urged her onwards. She’d paused periodically to map out her path; now she stood in front of an ancient Gelmorran altar, staring at the carefully incised serpent-and-ghostmaw sigil and the dried offerings, and imagined the looks on the de Nevelles’ faces.

_A heartbeat. A fire, burning under the earth._

Slowly, she took her glove off and put her hand on the cold stone.

Flash. Pain.

_Stone chisel, a steady tap-tap-tap, and wide, weathered hands. The man who holds the tools is older, perhaps her father’s age, with skin the color of basalt; he looks kind but a little tired, and his long ears droop. Gently, he_ _smooths the stone dust away. “There._ _All finished_ _.”_

“ _Father, are you still working on that?” A young woman, long ears bedecked with rough topaz, stands in the doorway. In the dim light, her robes and eyes gleam gold._

_The craftsman stands up, smiling at her. “I’ve finally finished. Your grandmother has a grave worthy of her at last, don’t you think?”_

_She is silent, eyes thoughtfully downcast. “I think she would be proud—but she would scold you, Father, you know you’re supposed to be resting. Your lungs—”_

“ _Bah!” It’s so like Ritanelle’s father that she feels something clench painfully in her chest. The old man laughs, reaching out to sling an arm around his daughter’s shoulder. “I’ve many years yet to see you rule, child. Come, ‘tis time for your coronation.”_

Flash.

_The same altar, but different now—glowing flora has been coaxed to grow along the walls and spill from every crack in the stone, bathing the room in a dozen different colors. The walls are set with mosaics of pale mica and shining gemstones, glittering where they catch the light. This is is still a tomb, but the living have built it into something more._

_She hears the approaching footsteps before the procession rounds the corner. Six strong men carry one stone coffin; their faces are masked, but in the Echo grief rolls off them in waves. As they set their burden down in front of the altar, an old woman with a wreath of ghostmaws comes forward. Her robes are a black so dark they seemed to absorb the light; her bare feet make no sound._

“ _Gods above and gods below, hear me! Today we lay to rest Queen Glastinelle—she who was strong and wise and glorious, she who was a light in the darkness. We call upon you to consecrate her rest, that she may sleep with her ancestors’ clay.”_

_Is it her imagination, or are the flowers glowing a bit brighter? Either way, the old woman seems satisfied; a faint smile flits across her face as she turns to the pallbearers. One of them is trying to still his shuddering ears, and she puts a hand on his shoulder. “There is time to mourn later. Now, we dance to remember her life, as she would have wanted.”_

_As the men file out, music begins to play in the room beyond. Even the first faltering notes, underlaid by steady drums, make her want to dance._

Flash.

_The flowers are dead, and the room that should have been full of mourners paying respects or telling their ancestors all the things they were missing is nearly empty. Its only occupant is a young man standing at a dusty niche, gloved hand resting on the stone. Even through his skin’s natural gray tint, he looks unhealthy and exhausted. His voice is a whisper, such that she has to strain to hear it. “…Grandfather, it’s getting worse. The fighting—gods below, yesterday Seuma accused the conjurers of lying to our faces and one of their bodyguards drew his blade, it took three of us to stop it. Every day, more of our people leave, and I—I do not know what can stop them. Please.” She watches as he crumples to his knees, resting his forehead on his grandfather’s tomb. “Tell me what to do.”_

_Someone is coming; the young man’s fear spikes cold through her before stilling, for the newcomer looks so much like him that they must be brothers. His clothes are different, though—whites and pale creams, shades that have never been popular in Gelmorra as they don’t last long underground. He’s carrying a heavy rucksack and a long blade at his belt, and his voice is hard. “I came to tell you I’m leaving.”_

_His brother—she thinks of him as the mourner—scrambles to his feet, staring incredulously at him. “You promised us! You love this city!”_

“ _This city?” There’s a hand on his sword now. “This pit in the ground? The elementals will help us build a new one!”_

_The mourner reaches out a hand, beseeching, but his ears are pinned back in anger. “How could you abandon us?! Our people, our heritage—do they mean nothing to you?!” Betrayal pulses through her—a son/a brother/my brother/uncle to my children, how could you?_

_He takes a step backwards, shaking his head. “The conjurers tell us such wonders—the elementals are offering us so much, brother!”_

_Gloved hands grab for his brother’s arm, and his voice trembles. “They offer you chains! The cup they give you is poison—as sure as an adder’s fangs! And you’re going to drink from it?”_

_He wrenches away, eyes wild and furious. “I’m going to be free!”_

“ _Please—“_

_A drawn sword. A cry of pain. Blood splattering the stone._

_The young man stares silently down at his brother’s corpse for a long while before turning and walking away. There’s no one stopping him from leaving now.  
_

Flash.

_Dust again, bones long since crumbled. A diremite skitters over the stone, mandibles clicking. It is the most interesting thing the altar has seen in two hundred years._

She surfaced slowly, head pounding in time with her heartbeat. At some point she’d crumpled to lean against the stone; the cold of it helped a little, but it didn’t calm her racing heart. _My city_ , she thought, and then _My people. Love, honor, betrayal, abandonment—these things are mine too. Thank you, Hydaelyn, for letting me see I am a daughter of the deep earth._


End file.
